


Do Not Touch

by Reality 2_0 (reality_2_0)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 01:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11956812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reality_2_0/pseuds/Reality%202_0
Summary: set mid-90s; Touching her is a privilege.





	Do Not Touch

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to everybody waiting for a 2.1 story. Mainly due to the current state of our backlog, you're getting another 2.0 story. I'm sorry.
> 
> This story was sparked by a (recent) discourse on tumblr about Bill's touching of his wife being a sign of jealousy and/or possessiveness. So here's another possible explanation for that behaviour...

He didn’t care how possessive it appeared, how much he looked like a caveman who had to stake his claim or how important the other man was, the moment said man put his hand on her upper arm, he had no choice but to join the group and do what his wife couldn’t do without causing a diplomatic incident.

 

It had taken him a while to learn that his rather introvert girlfriend didn’t like being touched by random people, especially out of the blue. A warning of any kind, a moment to prepare herself that it would happen made the action more tolerable.

It had been then that he had realized how much he had taken touching her for granted. Being an extrovert, physically expressive person himself, he had been in her personal space from the start. In retrospect, it amazed him that she hadn’t pushed back. The right to freely touch her whenever wherever was a rare privilege, and it spoke volumes about how comfortable she had always been with him, how much she had instantly trusted him that he had been granted this privilege within such a short amount of time after having met.

A few days after that realization, he had found himself in bed with her cuddled up against him, each a book in hand, enjoying each other’s company as well as the different reading material. Looking down at her, he had been hit hard by a wave of love and protectiveness. He had consequently pressed a kiss to the top of her head and whispered “Thank you”.

“For what?” she had asked, looking up at him.

“For being here, for allowing me to be here.”

Apparently having sensed that there had been more behind the statement than momentary happiness, she had put her book aside and given him her undivided attention. “What’s going on?”

“You value your space. You don’t like people touching you just like that.”

“Okay.” She had wondered where he had been going with that, thus she had simply acknowledged his statement, waiting for him to continue.

“Yet, you never shied away from me. You always let me touch you. I never realized until recently how big a gift you’ve given me, and how amiss I’ve been in taking it for granted and not thanking you for it.”

Her eyes had turned wet upon his explanation, and she had buried her face in his chest, embracing him tightly.

“I love you” had been her only verbal response, muffled by his skin, her voice thick with emotions.

At that moment, it had dawned on him that probably nobody had ever cared enough to notice this about her, to give a damn about it. It had broken his heart, and he had sworn to himself right then and there to never ignore her needs, to always protect and care for her.

 

Over the years, he had, to his own chagrin, failed to keep that promise a few times while she had expanded her gift by campaigning with and for him, facing groups of voters up close, shaking hands and embracing people. She had taught herself to accept the contact, had grown more comfortable with it, but cuddling kids aside, she still didn’t really enjoy it. Contrary to him who drew energy from such contacts, each single one cost her.

Unfortunately in their line of work, people liked to employ touch as a means to send a message to the public, to create the illusion of closeness and friendship, of good relations.

To see the minister deploy that method by standing close to his wife and touching her so casually irked him. As diplomacy forbade him to even kindly request the foreign diplomat remove his hands from the First Lady and take a step back, not to mention growl at the guy and push him away, he had to settle for an unequivocal nonverbal statement. It was times like this when his size came in particularly handy.

Coming up behind her, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed her temple before pulling her close against his side and making eye contact with the minister who seemed to get the message after a moment of irritation and put some more space between himself and the First Lady. He smiled politely, giving him a single nod at the action.

Occasionally, people perceived him as insecure about his marriage, as possessive, as domineering by the way he handled his wife. No compliments by far, but he couldn’t care less. His wife’s comfort took priority over his image. A conviction that was reinforced by her grateful smile.

She was a strong woman, his strong woman, and he would never even dream of thinking less of her because she appreciated his help in situations like this. Some people made the error to mistake her for a damsel in distress. It usually only took minutes of her speaking to cure them of that misconception, though.

Those were moments when he wanted to kiss her senseless for the pure joy he got out of watching her take down another man with a big ego. He could restrain himself, though. Sometimes, he allowed himself to pat her on the back or squeeze her hand, but anything further than that was always postponed to the privacy of their rooms.

He was proud of her, proud to be her husband, proud she trusted him, trusted him to take care of her, proud she loved him, was comfortable with him, proud she allowed him nearer than anybody else.

If he had to ruffle a few feather protecting her from unwanted attention, so be it. Nobody was to touch her without her consent. Important diplomat or not.

The End.


End file.
